Elyon by Ted Dekker Read Free Book Online

image. At the Dark Priest.
    “What do you want, Priest?”
    “Respect,” the priest said. “Your loyalty.”
    Johnis growled. “I give respect where it is due, Priest.”
    A fist struck him from behind. Johnis buckled under the blow and saw yellow and blue flashes of light. He righted himself and shook it off.
    Shaeda’s thoughts turned dark, knocking the wind out of him. She was strangling him. Shaeda , he managed. You’re killing me . . .
    She loosed her grip a little, still tense. Her talons still cut into him, so great was her hatred of all things Teeleh.
    Release me! he protested.
    The talons dug harder, pinching him. “ Put aside these thoughts of freedom. Freedom for you shall come with death.”
    Sucrow laughed. “Still struggling with glorious delusions, Chosen One?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Does Sucrow know? How?”
    The priest forced Johnis’s head sideways and traced his crescent-shaped birthmark—the one behind his ear—with his fingernails. Chuckled.
    “Oh yes, Witch spoke of you, before Ciphus killed him,” Sucrow taunted. “And then I killed Ciphus. And now, you, Chosen One.”
    Sorcerors, to the last of them. Johnis’s skin crawled under the touch. He fought the impulse to recoil out of sheer revulsion. In the end pride quelled his horror.
    “Drop dead,” Silvie snapped.
    “Arya,” Johnis scolded, refusing to confirm what Sucrow already gathered.
    “Pity that wench who bore you had to die.”
    Johnis ground his teeth. Sucrow chuckled, still stroking along Johnis’s neck, sending the tingling down his arms and legs. He scrutinized his prey. Reached for the ring on Johnis’s hand. His mother’s ring.
    Johnis curled his hand into a fist. The Dark Priest sneered. He pressed into Johnis’s skin, digging at his flesh until he made a ragged cut. Johnis winced.
    “You’ve caused me enough trouble.” Sucrow grabbed Johnis by the hair and jerked his head up. “I want to make something perfectly clear so that you understand your place. Agreeable, don’t you think?”
    A Throater shoved Silvie to her feet, knife still at her throat, and forced her to the edge of the altar. Her movements were stiff, as if under some spell. She was made to climb on top and lie down on her back.
    He chained her to the wood.
    Silvie craned her neck and shot Johnis a desperate look. “Jo . . . sef . . .”
    She had almost used his real name.
    Blood pounded in his temple; his hate rose. He channeled both into a rage and lunged against his shackles. Surely Shaeda would give him strength. Strength to tear off these shackles and destroy the priest who dared touch Silvie.
    “She stays with me!”
    Nothing. He was helpless.
    Shaeda.
    Sucrow cackled. “You understand, then. Insurance.”
    MARAK WAS COVERED IN BLOOD. HE FOUGHT HIS WAY DOWN the hall toward Josef and Arya’s room in time to see Darsal knife-fighting with an enemy. She sliced into his upper arm and ducked low to keep from tripping. Why didn’t she kill the man?
    “Darsal!”
    Another intruder. Marak fought him off, took a graze to the ear. He heard a crash and Darsal’s yelp cut short. Marak whirled and saw her motionless on the floor.
    His heart lurched.
    Marak was on the man before he knew what he was doing. Her opponent slammed into the wall. Marak’s sword fell toward him. Their blades clanged together. Marak blocked a blow. Feinted and sliced a diagonal arc.
    The intruder blocked with such force it rattled Marak’s arms. Marak dodged another and slashed against the man’s abdomen, disarmed him, then slashed off his head.
    Marak burst into the room that served Josef and Arya and spun around in time to block an attack. He pivoted sideways, unwilling to be trapped by a wall.
    A hard hit slammed him to his knees. Blood oozed from his shoulder. Marak blocked again. The sword rose up. Fell.
    Then his attacker fell. Marak rammed his knife into the man’s throat.
    Darsal kicked the dead man aside and wiped her stolen sword on his